The special was halting, with little puffs, and the president swung down from the steps. He looked about him with a nervous, running glance up and down the platform. If the boy were not here, he could not wait....
“Hello!” He laid his hands on a pair of broad shoulders that pushed toward him out of the dusk. “I want you—right off!”
“All right, sir, I’m coming.” There was a note of joy in the voice that warmed the older man’s heart.
“You ’re ready, are you?” He had turned toward the steps, with quick motion.
The boy laughed a little, hurrying beside him. “Not tonight. I must wait. There are things—”
The president paused, one foot on the step, glaring at him. “What things—Telegraph—” He waved a hand toward the office.
“It is n’t that.” The boy spoke quickly, the puffs from the engine driving his words aside. Nothing could seem important except that great engine, panting to be off, and the nervous man gripping the rail at his side. “It is n’t that, sir. It is my mother and the moving. I must see to that first.”
“Oh, they ’re coming, are they?” The hand on the rail relaxed.
“Yes, sir.”
The president stepped back to the platform. He made an impatient gesture to the engineer and turned to the boy. “How long do you want?” It was the old, sharp tone.